


The beauty of the abyss

by Basorexia



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Good Slade Wilson, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, M/M, Protective Slade Wilson, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basorexia/pseuds/Basorexia
Summary: Jason thought about it time and time again. He just wanted the pain and loneliness to stop. So he took the most important decision of his life and stuck to it.He went to sleep, and wished to never wake up.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 127





	The beauty of the abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody !! 
> 
> Here is a little thing, a very short one, I wrote quickly to get it out of my head. 
> 
> If mention of suicide, suicide attempt, dark thoughts, and everything related to this, is a trigger to you, please do not read. 
> 
> Stay safe. 
> 
> xoxo

Meteorology is a science that studies atmospheric phenomena, particularly with a view to making forecasts.  
There is one city for which watching weather forecasts is more of a waste of time than anything else: Gotham. As we know, the gloomy city with a high crime rate is not what you would call a sunny city. It is often grey, rain is the almost daily companion of its inhabitants, and sunny days can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Gotham is sad, Gotham is dark, and above all Gotham is the perfect reflection of the cluttered and gloomy mind of one of its natives. 

For some time now, Jason had been in the habit, after his usual patrol, of going back to his safe house, showering, changing clothes and going out for a stroll through the city streets. He blended into the crowd, wearing dark, indistinct clothes, eyes glued to the ground, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched over. He was no different from the other night strollers who lurked in the dark alleys. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, just walking blindly and letting himself be carried away by the sounds of the nightlife. The traffic noise, the lively or more discreet discussions of groups of people he might come across, the local wildlife of stray cats and dogs scraping through garbage cans in search of dinner. As he walked, a stranger in the midst of so many others, he was thinking. The subject of his reflections was always the same, unchanged for months, haunting him until he fell asleep. He had weighed the pros and cons for days on end, putting words on paper, reasoning and trying to find other solutions, but he had to face the facts. The only escape from his discomfort was still to finish the work that had been started years ago by the Joker and interrupted by Ra's Al Ghul and his Lazarus Pit. 

Since his return among the living, the idea had been in the back of his mind. The anger he had in him at that time had put the desire for death to rest and when the anger had more or less subsided, dark thoughts had arisen. And after years of being beaten, bones broken, his flesh torn apart, his joints damaged, and his life filled with violence and sadness, he had made his decision.   
He had thought long and hard about it, and had come to the realization that his whole life was one big tragedy, that he could not be happy. He had hoped to be happy when he was adopted by Bruce, but since becoming Robin, nothing was the same. It wasn't the kind of activity, the vigilantism, from which one could get out alive. And as far as he knew, you didn't retire, you died a hero. No more, no less.   
And let's be honest for five minutes, even if he miraculously managed to get away from Gotham, from his "family", from the other heroes and vigilantes, there was little chance Bruce would leave him in peace. He had earned the constant doubt and mistrust his adoptive father had for him, but he could only regret not feeling completely alone. He was under constant supervision. No privacy, no secrets, no private life. He knew that his father knew everything about his habits, Bruce was paranoid enough to have done his research. And Jason was certain that, at that very moment, his father knew exactly what he was doing. The young man doubted, however, that Bruce was suspicious of his intentions. Suicide was never considered in the Wayne family. Too stubborn to end it that way, and not cowardly enough to encounter death on their own. They left it up to the criminals of the city to arrange the meeting with the reaper for them. 

Jason's walk took him home, or at least the safehouse he preferred. It was the most comfortable, the least sad, and the best furnished. If there were no caching weapons in every nook and cranny and no such important security features, it would have seemed like a normal apartment in a middle-class neighborhood of the city. And Jason chose this particular safehouse because in his final hours he wanted the ultimate semblance of normalcy.   
He took off his jacket and put it on the back of one of the armchairs in the living room before going straight to the bathroom. Gotham's polluted environment, combined with a fine mist, made him feel uncomfortable, dirty and sticky. He slipped under the hot shower spray and sighed with relief as the hot water doused his skin. Anything was good, including burning his body raw, to feel something other than the sidereal emptiness that filled him. With a mechanical gesture, he grabbed the shower gel and soaped himself before washing his hair. If not happy, he could at least leave a clean corpse.   
Rinsed, he got out of the shower, dried himself and left his wet towel on the bathroom floor to slip between the sheets of his bed. He laid still for a moment before taking a look at what he had prepared the night before. On his bedside table was a bottle of cheap whiskey and a bottle of sleeping pills.  
It was time. 

The empty whisky bottle rolled to the floor in a dull tinkling. Jason was heavily intoxicated and the sleeping pills had already started working. In a jolt of consciousness he grabbed his phone and with a trembling hand typed a message to the one person who had never judged him on his choices, his life, his actions. Not once had he addressed him with a menacing look or a word full of threatening insinuations. Not a sideways glance or a reproach or a scathing remark. This man was not an altar boy himself, but unlike Bruce he did not hide behind a false sense of morality. They were equal in their exactions. And he had never blamed the young man for his past actions.   
His mind foggy and disconnected from reality, Jason wrote his last words as best he could, he admitted his action, he selfishly confessed by message, feelings he had had for years but had never had the courage to express aloud, and ended with a last goodbye.   
He let the phone slip out of his hand after sending the message and closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by this feeling of tiredness and lassitude. He had no regrets and the wave of darkness that surrounded his mind overwhelmed him. 

For an outside observer, the scene would have been calm, restful, even intimate. A room plunged into darkness, a barely visible silhouette under the blankets seeming to sleep the sleep of the righteous, his left hand dangling in the air. A well-deserved moment of rest. As with classical paintings, one must pay attention to details to fully realize the gravity of the situation. The empty bottle of alcohol on the floor, the empty package of heavy sleeping pills, fingers clenched, a torso that no longer rises to the rhythm of breathing. Closing one's eyes to such details leaves the impression of a man at peace. A moment of calm before the coming storm, through a broken door, a frantic race and a first name thrown out loud in the vicinity.   
And when the peaceful body is suddenly lifted up, forced to regurgitate to the ground, the toxic mixture of alcohol and drugs, the storm that has hit the peaceful scene, shouts orders into the handset of a cell phone. There is nothing heroic or romantic about this. The gestures are brutal, jerky, desperate. There is nothing beautiful in the relentless attempt to save a life. 

For the same outside observer as a little earlier, a passerby who got lost, a new scene can be observed several days later. Peaceful too, less serene, less morbid, but with that spark of hope that makes us wring our hands with impatience.  
Jason is lying in a medical bed, far from his safehouse. There is no noise in the room, apart from the reassuring beep of the heart monitor. The room in which he lies, was not made to accommodate such equipment. The peach wallpaper, the large windows along the wall, the white curtains slightly lifted by the morning breeze entering the room through the half-open window, everything gives the impression of a guest room hastily converted to accommodate him.   
The door opens silently, letting the owner enter. He observes the unconscious body for a moment before closing the door behind him and moving towards the hospital bed, sitting in a nearby armchair. It has been the same routine every day since he recovered Jason. He spends his days by his side, patiently waiting and praying for him to wake up. By the time he reached him, when he was almost gone, he had decided to save him. This time no Pit, no magic, no megalomaniac. Just a mercenary not wanting to see a boy so young, leaving too early for nothing. If he hadn't arrived in time, what a waste Jason's death would have been. He had lost a son, the second one refused contact, and his daughter ... let's just say their relationship was complicated. He didn't want to lose another person for whom he had even a little bit of tenderness. 

He had grabbed him that night, made him vomit his stomach contents, and tried to revive him until Wintergreen arrived to take him urgently from Gotham to a private clinic. There he had received proper care, and Slade had been watching him jealously ever since. 

The mercenary was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of crumpling sheets. His young patient was finally emerging, and he couldn't help but take Jason's hand as he looked at him. Slade hesitated for a moment before thinking back and didn't utter a word, giving the young man the opportunity to speak first. 

"What ... Slade... »  
"I was not far from your house when I received your message. I came looking for you. »

Jason did not answer, and withdrew his hand from Slade's grasp. He closed his eyes and, without a sound, began to cry. Nothing was said for a long while, and finally only Jason's sobs filled the room. The young man was in pain. The pain was probably not physical, and there was nothing Slade could say that would make him feel better. The ills of the mind were the most difficult to cure. Often deeply settled, a few comforting words weren't enough to help a broken soul rebuild itself. The mercenary got up from his armchair and joined the young man on the bed, taking him in his arms and letting him cry against him until he had no more tears to shed. For lack of soothing words, Slade could offer a physical presence, a way for the young man to be grounded. It was the only way he could provide a little support to his patient, while keeping an eye on him.

"Why? I just wanted to get it over with. Why did you come? »  
"Because I'm happy you exist, and watching you self-destruct made me lose control. You're important to me, even if you don't think so."

Jason closed his eyes again. He didn't have the strength to argue, he was exhausted, and Slade's warm, lively, reassuring touch against him lulled him to sleep. He still wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream in to Slade's face that he had made a mistake, that he should have let him die. That he should never have intervened. But between the fatigue, the weariness and the anger, there was something else.

He hadn't been able to reach his goal, to fall asleep for good, he was ashamed that the mercenary had found him that way. He hadn't foreseen this, just as he hadn't planned to send the farewell message. Next time he would not send a message, he promised himself. In the meantime, he wanted to stop fighting against fatigue, and fell asleep against the mercenary. He would see tomorrow.


End file.
